You Came Back
by imjustaklainer
Summary: It's been a year since John witnessed Sherlock's death, and he's struggling to cope- not only with grief, but with regret of not revealing a deep secret that could have made his relationship with his flatmate stronger. What will happen next?
1. Chapter 1

"Mrs Hudson! Mrs Hudson? I'm back, are you here? Mrs Huuuuud-sooooon?" I called out as I walked through the door. When I heard no reply, I glanced swiftly around and headed upstairs. With every step I climbed as if it was a mountain, I heard more and more clearly the tears of a wounded heart that belonged to Mrs Hudson. I knew what today was, and I didn't want to avoid it. I just didn't want it to be here, already, so soon. I reached the door, grabbed the handle tight, attempting to keep my balance. I felt something slither down my cheek, like a snake, ready to bite at any time. Soon I would feel the pain from that bite, the venom injected into me, and I would sit in sorrow for the rest of the day and for the whole night, until I felt numb and senseless. Helpless and paralysed in the same position for hours, days, months, and years. I'd always be in that position, because he wasn't here to help. I'd stay there, longing for his return, watching the landlady loiter around me, wondering what to do. I'd reminisce with myself about the amazing memories I had with the unimaginable person I once had shared this very flat with. It would hit me, he wasn't coming back. His presence would never be known physically to anyone in the present and future within 221B Baker Street- although he wasn't tangible to me, I still felt an air of him clinging onto the curtains and his belongings in this flat. He was in my heart, forever.

I shook back to reality, eyes suddenly wide open and shaking away any tears I had let slip.

"Oh, John, John..." Mrs Hudson was next to me now. She had no makeup on, she knew that she would cry today. She hadn't done anything with her hair, like she normally did, there wasn't a purpose in it. Her voice kept breaking and the little bin next to the door was overflowing with tissues.

"Wh-where have you been, John?" She sniffled and wandered over to the window.

"Out, Mrs Hudson. I'm a grown boy now, you needn't worry about me!" I gave a little laugh, but soon allowed the solemn atmosphere to return.

I walked over to where the frail woman stood. I saw a few tributes to the late consulting detective laid on the pavement. Why hadn't I noticed them as I returned home?

"You know what today is, right, John?" Mrs Hudson whispered.

"Yes, of course I do." I replied quietly, rubbing her arm with my hand in comfort.

"Do you miss him?"

"Oh, every single day of my life. I loved him, I really loved him- and I never had the courage to tell him. Every time someone asked who I was, I wanted to grab his hand and tell him I wanted to be more than a colleague, more than an acquaintance, more than a friend- although he claimed to have none- and I always regretted it afterwards. I saw him die, Mrs Hudson, I can't get that image out of my head. I miss him terribly, I really rea-" I burst out crying and seeked the comfort of a chair to help me.

Mrs Hudson shuffled towards the other side of the room, as if to retrieve something but not building up enough energy to move faster. "L-look, John, it's his violin," she said, a smile growing on her face, memories recollecting in her mind. I could almost see them, touch them, witness them doubling up. She loved him, too. She loved him as a son, as a person, as a mad untidy man who kept body parts in the kitchen and shot the wall when he was bored. That made me smile a little, remembering that time.

"BORED!" he said. "BORED, BORED, BORED!"

That one Christmas he played the violin and deduced poor Molly Hooper until she was red from embarrassment of the revelation of her love discovered by the very man she adored. Molly was cut up too, after the event. She moved away, not sure where. Somewhere very far, I was told, where no one could get her. _A secret hideaway._

I stood up and moved towards the window once again, looking out at the beauty of London. I noticed someone who looked familiar walk down the street, holding an umbrella and looking awfully posh. Dressed in a suit, Mycroft looked at all the tributes laid for his younger brother. Even Mycroft Holmes, member of the Diogenes Club and the man who could make any situation turn into a sophisticated debate that he would without a doubt win, looked on in shock. One year since he had gone. He looked solemn, and for a minute, closed his eyes and bowed his head, as if to honour his brother. A minute's silence for the man who meant so much to so few. Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, Mrs Hudson, me- we loved him. I suspect even Anderson felt remorse for his death. To him, the great man was a psychopath, but of course, his truly remarkable reply consisted of 'high functioning sociopath' and 'lowering the IQ of the whole street'. Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock. He was outstanding, indescribable, unpredictable- but most of all, beautiful.


	2. Chapter 2

The next day, I visited Sherlock's grave, with gentle old Mrs Hudson at my arm, guiding her along the path that led us to where Sherlock's stone was located. A reminder of his presence on Earth, a memory. 'May he rest in peace', it reads. If he knew me and many others missed him dearly, he would consider getting us all checked out and think we had been delusioned by grief for someone they thought they knew. Nobody truly knows Sherlock. I don't even think Sherlock knew himself. He thought solving cases that the police couldn't crack was his forte, his talent. He conjured up his job title himself and made it unique. He claimed that he didn't have any friends and that alone protected him. The sad thing is, by the time of his death, the nation knew him as a fake. The newspapers were flooded with stories about his hired actor to play Moriarty, the dastardly and sickening villain in this whole charade of life. I knew he wasn't a fake, even though he said he was during his last words to me. I would fight for him no matter what, he wasn't a fake, we went through that together and I knew, I _knew _he was one of a kind.

"Maybe we should have one of those minute silence things, you know, as a sign of respect," the small woman tugging at my arm suggested.  
I nodded, and gave a little smile to let Mrs Hudson know that I appreciated and liked her idea. We stood there, eyes closed, lips still and feet strong enough to keep us stood straight. Our heads were high as we remembered him. We knew he wouldn't want to see us with tears streaming down our cheeks or our bodies crouched and frail as we wished him the best in Heaven (or wherever he was) and reminded him that we missed him.

The minute seemed like forever. An eternity, a lifetime. I awoke back into the real world when Mrs Hudson said, "I'll leave you have a moment alone, like I did the first time we came here. Besides, it's freezing out here!"

"Okay, Mrs Hudson, thank you. I won't be a minute." I nodded and looked into her eyes. I realised why she was so important to me. She was a great woman and landlady when Sherlock was alive, but since the fall, she had been my rock. Everyone else had been supportive, but nonetheless no one understood how I felt other than dear Mrs Hudson.

She smiled and carefully walked back up to the entrance of the graveyard.

"One year, Sherlock. One year. For one year I haven't heard your violin playing in the early hours of the morning. For one whole year I haven't watched you solve cases alongside Lestrade and witnessed your incredible deductions. For one year I haven't had you." I stopped, my voice breaking a little. I coughed and I returned back to my normal tone.

"I miss you a lot, Sherlock, and I know you're never coming back, but-" I sighed. I didn't know what else to say. "Your belongings are still with us, me and Mrs Hudson, in that little flat of ours. Your violin is still dusted, your skull still stands on the mantelpiece, your gunshots exposed on the wall. They are the things that keep you with us, Sherlock. The things that remind us of you and lift our spirits, remind us of what a strange yet fascinating and incredible man you were. A few weeks ago, I went shopping, and when I came back I called your name. I heard your voice in my head saying, 'Don't look in the fridge, John.' or 'Did you get milk, John?' or something like that."

I allowed my head to flop forwards and I released myself from the strong front I had kept on for so long. I broke down.

"I want you here, with me, Sherlock. Come back, please, the one last miracle I ever asked of you was for you not to be dead. Please, please, please make that happen. I need you, Sherlock. I can't deduct people like you could. I can't make connections between people and cases in a split second like you could. I can't have that mysterious air of me like you did. I'm just plain old John Watson, ex-army doctor and occasional blogger. You,_ you _were Sherlock Holmes, extraordinaire. You got called upon with the photo scare with Irene Adler, the Woman. You were the one who befriended her, you got close to her, you, not me. I couldn't look twice at the woman standing in front of us naked without doing something rather stupid."

I wiped my tears away and took a deep breath. I regained my balance and stood strong once again, head held high.

"I should be getting back to Mrs Hudson, I'll, erm- goodbye."

I touched the gravestone, in the hope of having some paranormal connection to Sherlock's ghost or something, then I turned to leave and walked up the long path back to where Mrs Hudson was. I heard voices.

"We can't do this anymore, he needs to know," a man's voice came from the trees. I didn't know how I could hear them, some words I couldn't interpret, but those few words were clear enough to me.

"It's still early days, it's been a year but it'll raise questions, fears, the nation will be taken aback!" This was a woman. Sounded an awful lot like Molly, but I shook my head and decided that my grieving mind was playing tricks on me and continued up the path.

"He's walking away, we need to do something!" the man spoke again, louder this time.

"Hello ? Anyone there?" I called out. This was scaring me, so much. I was close to considering another appointment with the psychologist who treated me when I came back from the war and ever since Sherlock died.

A strange old man emerged from the trees. He had a long, navy coat on and a deerstalker hat on his head. "Sherlock," I whispered.

"E-e-excuse me? I do not know of a Sherlock, my good man, but I do have a message from an unknown sender that I was told to give to you," the Sherlock resemblance struck me so hard, I didn't realise he was speaking until he waved a small, white envelope in front of my face.

"Oh, thank you. Wait, you say unknown sender?" I looked puzzled.  
"It was given to me by some stranger on the street. He told me to give it to one John Watson when he visited here today. So, here." He handed me the letter. He was telling the truth, you could see in his eyes; it was genuine.

"Thank you."

The man nodded his head and walked away, away from the trees, away from the voices.

I looked around to check nobody else was there. When I was sure, I opened the letter.

It read:

_Irene Adler, the woman- I didn't deduce her. She was the only one I couldn't get through to._

_Tell Mrs Hudson to be strong, that I still believe in her no matter where I am or what may happen._

_You too, John, stay strong._

_I know you._

_SH x_

Oh, a letter from the deceased man that I once loved and the only man I will love. With a kiss. A kiss? A KISS? Wait a second, SHERLOCK WROTE THIS? This is mad. A KISS?

I ran back to Mrs Hudson screaming, "Look! Look what I've got!" as if I was a child running out of school again.

"What? What is it, John?" she replied when I reached her and clambered into the car.

"Look, look, read it, read it!" I said, excitedly and out of breath.

I watched her eyes scan every single letter written on the page.

"A letter? From, Sh-sherlock?"

"THERE'S A KISS!"

"Look, John, I know you loved him but that is the most important thing you can extract from this?"

"Yeah, I know, it's from Sherlock, and he's supposedly dead, but maybe now I can tell him! He said he KNOWS ME!"

"JOHN. YOU SAW SHERLOCK FALL. THIS CANNOT BE HIM."

"Oh, but it is, Mrs Hudson, see I told him. I told him not to be dead!"

Mrs Hudson looked at me like I was mentally ill, mad, nuts.

I just looked at her with wide eyes and a beaming smile.

"John, honey, where did you get this?"

"The man from the trees gave it to me."

Mrs Hudson nodded as if her prejudgements about this were true. I was most definitely crazy.

"We need to go home."

"No, I need to see if he's there, in the trees, I heard someone. I heard Molly."

I flung the door open and sprinted towards the trees, the way I had gone before. "SHERLOCK!" I yelled. By this moment, I had realised myself that there must've been something wrong with me, something wrong with my mind.

"MOLLY? SHERLOCK? SOMEBODY?"

No reply.

"HELLOOOOO!" I screamed on the top of my lungs. I had trouble breathing about a minute after that, and I could hear my echo through the trees, bouncing off the trunks and branches of every individual tree.

"Sh-sherlock, Sherlock, please," I could feel myself breaking down again. The wind was strong and forceful and I almost got knocked down. Instead of being pushed to the ground, I battled it. I fought its natural war against me with all the power and strength I had, pushing and pushing until I reached the car again.

"He's gone."

Mrs Hudson didn't say a single vowel nor consonant.

"That letter. That stupid letter, it's just a joke. Some sick joke that some sick person played on me. Everything is just wrong, it's just SICK!" I hit the wheel and the horn sounded. Mrs Hudson wrapped her arms around me and pulled me closer towards her. It was comforting. It was good to know that someone was there.


	3. Chapter 3

_John Watson. Ex-army doctor, blogger, grieving friend._

Grieving friend? That'll attract people to your blog, I thought.

_John Watson. Ex-army doctor, blogger, friend._

I sighed. I hated this blog, and I hated it ever since he left me, left everyone behind.

"JOHN! THERE'S SOMEONE HERE TO SEE YOU!"

I shook my head and blinked a couple of times to shake away the tears and look somewhat presentable and attentive.

"Hello?" I called out.

"Hello there John." Mycroft Holmes waltzed through the door. He stood for a moment, leaning onto his umbrella and briefly turning around to thank Mrs Hudson.

"Oh, Mycroft, didn't expect you to want to see me."

"I have been informed of some news."

I looked at him, sarcastically shocked, and sank into the armchair. Mycroft took it upon himself to assume he could sit and explain. He walked towards the chair facing me, one step at a time, savouring the sound each footstep made. Once he had sat down, I straightened up, and promised myself that I would listen intently.

"This news is serious, incredible, mind-blowing."

I nodded but instantly got bored of the conversation, so I did what I do when I want to avoid a subject. "Tea, Mycroft?"

"Oh, that would be wonderful, many thanks, John."

I stood up and rushed over to the kitchen. I checked every pot, tub and cup that was in the kitchen in case Sherlock had left a little gift that was undiscovered. You stupid mind, I thought, Sherlock isn't here, and he didn't write that letter, just stop!

"As I was saying, this news, it's unbelievably top secret. There is only one reason I am telling you this, John." He continued as I made his tea.

"What's that then?" I asked, slightly curious but mostly so that I wouldn't seem completely rude and unwelcoming.

"It involves you."

At that moment, I stopped making his tea and started keeping to my promise. I turned my head round to see Mycroft with his head turned to face mine. A small grin began to grow on his face. Times like these I found Mycroft unsettling, uncomfortable, and a stone's throw from being a psychopath.

"How does it involve me?"

"The letter, John."

I knew now, this was all some dangerous matter of high security and it had gotten into the wrong hands. Wasn't meant for me, obviously not when it had my name on it and it acknowledged the landlady who looked after me and Sherlock for as long as we lived there.

"W-what letter?" I tried to be unaware of the situation, while shuffling along to retrieve the letter, hoping it would be subtle and Mycroft wouldn't have a clue.

"I have it. There isn't a purpose in doing those little shuffles to get it without me noticing." Woops. Game over.

"My mind was playing tricks on me, okay, Mycroft? Someone was playing a horrible trick on me, making me think Sherlock was still alive and then disappointing me. I heard someone's voice in the trees, Mycroft, I could've sworn it was him and Molly, but then I told Mrs Hudson and she made me realise he's gone and there's nothing anyone can do about it-"

"John, please, keep a cool and clear head, I need to tell you something." Mycroft interrupted.

"- and I keep thinking he'll come back and he'll waltz in and say 'Hey John, sorry, was on a very, very, very, very, very long case and I couldn't have any contact with anyone, but I'm back!' or something like that and-"

"Your mind isn't playing tricks on you, John!" He got louder, but I still continued.

"- I keep thinking there'll be stuff in the kitchen like he put a head in there this one time and-"

"WE FOUND HIM." Mycroft put a hand over my mouth and I stopped. "We found him. He didn't die by jumping from the roof of St Bartholomew's hospital. He's alive, and perfectly well. He's down the police station with DI Lestrade."

I stood there, in awe of this amazing man who had just told me the only person I could ever really love isn't dead, and also wanting to slap him for hiding this from me for however long it may be.

"Would you like to see him?"


	4. Chapter 4

"Mycroft, are you sure this is a good idea?"

"Yes, John, I am sure. He's been desperate to see you since we discovered his little hideaway with Molly, although he insists there's nothing between you. He went awfully red with embarrassment when he told us though, so who knows? Maybe it's love. If it's true and my brother is a high functioning homosexual sociopath, then it's a little awkward because I thought he had no interest in anything but love is love, all the same."

"Where's Molly?"

"Not sure, but I think Anderson took her in for questioning. Ask Lestrade."

Walking down the corridor towards the room Sherlock is being kept in, it was like each step took me closer to the fate I had wanted so bad for the past year. I had no idea what would happen, what we'd say to each other, how we'd react. In a perfect world, we'd hug and apologise and just do what people do when they're reunited with their long lost family, friends, lovers. Normal things. Let's face it, though, Sherlock wasn't normal. He had faked his own death and been whisked away to an unknown destination by the young girl who had admired and fawned over him for so long.

Suddenly, we came to a halt, and Mycroft stepped to the side. "We're here."

I gulped and my hand reached for the door. Gripping onto it tight, I took a deep breath.

"Good luck," Mycroft whispered as I was about the pull the handle down and gently open the door.

As I entered, a couple of policemen followed me. Something about keeping me safe around him.

He was standing there, his back turned to me and his body motionless. I noticed his long coat was strewn over the table and I could see he had his arms folded.

"Sh-sher-sherlock?" I stammered. My hands were shaking, even when I held them close to my legs, to keep my balance sturdy.

"You, police officers, leave now. You know I am not a threat and neither is my friend now please exit this room."

The officers did as they were told by this consulting detective who had hidden from the world for the past 360 something days. He spun around and stared at me.

"John."

"Sherlock."

We stood in silence for a moment, although my head was filled with voices and noise and questions. I assumed Sherlock's mind was still and silent.

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Isn't there anything you have to say to me, to ask me, anything at all?"

"Believe me, Sherlock, my mind is reeling with questions but I'm still trying to get over the fact that you're still here."

His eyes then met mine, like daggers stabbing me repeatedly yet lacking physical pain.

"What do you mean by 'still here'? Still cooped up in this tiny room, or still walking on this Earth, unbeknown to many?"

"Both."

"It's called 'faking your death', and no, not because of insurance, but because Moriarty's henchmen were to kill you if they didn't see me fall off of that roof."

"Why the phone call?"

"I couldn't leave you in suspense of my disappearance and have someone you hardly know tell you that I was dead. Well, 'dead'."

"How did you do it?"

"It's complicated, Molly offered her help and I took it. She has a very incredible mind for such a naïve young woman, I must admit."

"Aren't you going to explain what happened?"

"I repeat, it's complicated. Besides, your little mushed-up incompetent mind wouldn't be suited to the act I performed with Molly being my backstage manager."

"Now ISN'T the time to INSULT ME, SHERLOCK!" I started screaming. I could feel the anger bubbling away inside of me. If he knew that I would be like this, would miss him and would enquire as to how he lived, he shouldn't have started the conversation. I saw the corner of his lips curl up, eyeing up the door as police officers kept a close eye on the events in that room through a small window in the door.

"I apologise, John."

"I don't care, Sherlock, you faked your death and left me, left Mrs Hudson, left everybody to wonder what happened. You abandoned us. I missed you so much you wouldn't believe, I kept thinking you'd come back. I said at your graveside that all I wanted, that one more, one last miracle from you, 'Don't be dead'. Why didn't you come back earlier? You know, before, me and Mrs Hudson found numerous floral tributes to you on the anniversary of your death?"

The tall, curly haired man, with cheekbones you could cut yourself on and a smile that most definitely lit my life up, sighed. For once, he felt bad about something.

"I'm sorry, John, I really am. It was hard for me, believe me. I never stopped thinking of you."

You could tell from his voice that he was being genuine in his response.

"There's something I need to tell you, Sherlock."

"I need to tell you something too. You, first, though."

"Okay. I, erm, I've needed to tell you this for a while now, and, erm- look Sherlock I lo-"

At this point I heard the door open and rolled my eyes. Just my luck- the one time I have enough courage to confess myself to Sherlock, there's an interruption.

"Erm, Sherlock Holmes?" a small voice came from behind. It was a man's, quite young, most likely new to the team. Scared because he's shy, trying to overcome this by joining the police force and speaking out against crime across the country. Intimidated by Sherlock, after everything that's happened with him and how this poor young lad never thought he'd be talking to a 'dead' man. Jesus, all of that from 3 words spoken with a shaken voice. Sherlock had had more of an influence on me than I had first thought.

"Yes?" Sherlock replied sharply, as if he wanted to get that conversation over with.

"DI Lestrade, he, erm, he n-needs you." His voice was a bit shakier this time. More words, I expected, he was too shy to cope, too overwhelmed by the presence of Mr Holmes. Sherlock took few but great strides towards the young man, who looked more and more terrified with every step as Sherlock beckoned over. He towered over the rookie police officer.

"Tell him I won't be a moment, I'm sure he can wait." Sherlock answered softly. It sent shivers down my spine. I remember when he spoke like that to me- it was seductive, in a way.

The small boy, who now had tense shoulders but legs that looked as if they would give way at any moment, nodded. His mouth was wide open and his eyes stared up at Sherlock in awe. As he turned to walk away, Sherlock grabbed him by the shoulder and bent his head so that he could whisper right into his ear.

"Oh, and tell Lestrade that if I have to work with Anderson, that I have my trusted friend John with me, Anderson is not needed."

"O-okay, thank you, Mr Holmes, sir," and with that, the young boy stumbled out and Sherlock turned towards me with that same beautiful smile that I fell in love with.

"Shall we, Mr Watson?"

I sighed, smiled to myself and walked over to the door.

"What was that thing you were about to say?"

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes," I whispered so casually, I didn't even notice the words had actually been spoken at first. The response was what took me aback.

"I love you too, John Hamish Watson. Now let's go and find Lestrade quickly, so we can get back to the flat." And with that, he gave me a peck on the cheek and took my hand, winking when he turned his head to me, guiding me to where Lestrade was located. I was wide-eyed, overwhelmed, happy. Nothing could spoil that moment. Nothing.

((Just a warning, the next chapter isn't suitable for anyone under 16 or who feels uncomfortable with sex basically. If you want to skip that chapter when I upload the rest then it's okay!))


	5. Chapter 5

"Mrs Hudson? Mrs Hudson, are you there?"

"Oh, yes I am honey, although that sounded an awful lot like-" As Mrs Hudson emerged from down the corridor, the fear on her face faded away and was replaced with a beaming smile. Her eyes lit up and her face glowed. She opened her arms and refused to take no for an answer as she wrapped herself around Sherlock's waist.

"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, I've missed you terribly! H-how are you alive?" You could hear the sheer joy in her voice, her relief, her happiness.

"I've asked him that question since the minute I saw him!" I called out from behind, carrying Sherlock's bags and heading upstairs to place them in his room that had been left untouched. Once I had reached the living room, I could hear laughs from the conversation between Sherlock and Mrs Hudson. It was like reuniting a mother and her son- they had such a close relationship, and Mrs Hudson genuinely grieved for Sherlock as if she had lost a child. His return had just brightened up her world within a few seconds. It was amazing to see Mrs Hudson like this, holding Sherlock close to her chest as Sherlock reluctantly wraps his arms around her and holds her tight. Sherlock loved her. He knew she was delicate and frail on the outside, but strong and full of fighting spirit inside. "Mrs Hudson leave Baker Street? England would fall!" I remember him saying once. It was clear to see they cared for each other. It was beautiful.

I was too busy arranging Sherlock's belongings to where they were before, too immersed in Sherlock's scent on his clothes- it was silly, but it was the most amazing smell ever. It was like a drug, like ecstasy. I had to have it. I craved it. I didn't trowel through his clothes, inhaling the scent from every item I found as if I was so obsessed with this man, but the more I touched and felt the clothes, the more his scent became noticable.

"Putting my clothes away? How kind, John. Thank you." I jumped when he spoke, not realising he was there, but smiled at his acknowledgement of my act of kindness. He smiled. His mouth formed that beautiful grin that simply mesmerised me. His eyes sparkled. I found myself staring at him, but he was staring at me too.

"I should go, Sherlock."

"No, John, stay." He reached his arm out, adamant that I was to remain there. He walked up close to me and took off my jacket, keeping his eyes fixated on my lips.

"Sh-sherlock..."

"Shh." Sherlock placed a finger onto my lips. I was terrified to breathe. I just didn't know what to make of the situation. He removed his finger and leant closer towards me.

"I love you, John," he whispered, and then kissed me gently. He brought his hands to my head, as if to make sure I kept close towards him.

"I love you too, Sherlock. I've missed you so much."

"Maybe- maybe we should just, just stay here." He whispered so quietly, yet the words were clear, like a calm, crystal clear stream.

"Stay here?" I said as my voice shook a little out of surprise of what Sherlock was suggesting. He started undoing the buttons of my shirt, still keeping his eyes tied with mine as he did so.

"Yes, stay here, John, didn't you hear me?"

"I heard you loud and clear."

"Come on then. What are you waiting for?"

He pulled me closer and kissed me again, this time a tad more fiercely, as if he had been desperate for this for so long. Well he has been in a secret hideaway with Molly for a year, I thought. He can't have told her he was gay when Molly fawns after him constantly.

He pushed me back onto the bed, practically ripping my clothes off.

"Sherlock, stop, stop, stop," I begged him. He lay next to me, both of us lacking clothes.

"Why would you want me to stop, John?" He said, in between kissing me, starting with my cheek and gradually moving downwards. I just stared to the ceiling rather awkwardly: one, because I wasn't exactly the best person at being sexual, and two, because Sherlock had never been this sexual towards me or anyone else.

"Maybe, maybe we can just talk- or, or you can do that, I-I guess, erm-"

"John, shut up. You know you've wanted this for a while. Am I correct?"

I daren't look down at him, but I nodded admittedly.

"And I love you and you love me and this is what two people who love each other do, correct?"

I nodded, now wishing he would stop being right all the time.

"And you know you're enjoying it already, so don't act."

"I-I love you, Sherlock Holmes, I truly do."

"I love you too, John Watson, now shut up and let me show you that I do."

And then, it just happened. Me. Sherlock. Together.


	6. Chapter 6

I woke up the next day, expecting to be curled up in Sherlock's arms, where I had fallen asleep the night before. Instead, I awoke to find Sherlock frantically getting dressed and shaking me, demanding I get up instantly.

"John! John, John, come on, this is serious, hurry up, get some clothes on, we need to get to the police station, NOW!" He was out of breath and in the middle of buttoning his shirt. His face looked shell-shocked, devastated, shaken by some horrible news that had practically flipped his world upside down.

"What is it, Sherlock?" I asked with a sleepy voice, clambering out of bed and reaching for some clothes. Sherlock froze in his spot, his hands stuck to the last button he was fumbling with.

"Sherlock?"

This was serious. Very serious. Sherlock was never speechless. Never so shocked that he couldn't move.

"I don't care about her in that way but she's my friend, John, she's _our_ friend!" He muttered, and then rose his voice at me, while I pulled my trousers up and grabbed my shirt.

"Molly?"

He had tears in his eyes, but he sniffled his nose and blinked to expel the tears that dare fall upon the man who doesn't care about anyone's cheek. I continued to get dressed, although now at a rapid pace.

"She's dead." He whispered. I could still hear him though, despite the volume of his voice. "Killed early this morning. I got the call from Lestrade about fifteen minutes ago." I checked the time- 11:42 exactly. We had both had a lie in, and I assumed the call from Lestrade was his untimely alarm.

He sat himself down on the bed, unable to look anywhere else but at the direction of the wall.

I pulled one of my typical jumpers over my head, grabbed my shoes and went to sit next to him.

I shoved one shoe on, made it fit comfortably, and then moved to the next. Sherlock was down on his knees, carefully placing the shoe on my foot, gently and delicately. It was like I was the long lost Cinderella he had been searching for.

"Lestrade, he wants me to solve the case. Will you be there with me, John?" He whispered, and then looked up at me, gazed into my eyes. I placed a hand under his chin and moved my head closer.

"I'll always be there for you, Sherlock. Always." And with that, I gave him a delicate kiss on his lips and removed my hand from his chin, allowing the broken man kneeling in front of me to stand.

"Let's go, John. Let's get this over with."

We arrived to the police station, and as soon as we walked in, Sherlock began to search for Lestrade in a frenzy, panicking.

"Lestrade? Lestrade? This is no time to play hide and seek with me, Detective Inspector, this is a serious case!" He yelled as he frantically turned his head in all directions around the room, looking for the man who had broken the news to him and required his assistance.

"Sherlock, Sherlock, I'm here," a figure emerged from the dark corridor behind us, grabbing Sherlock by the arm and trying to calm him down. I stepped to Lestrade's side and watched Sherlock's face crumble. He knew at this point that everything was coming true.

The DI led us to a police car, which took us to St Bart's hospital. Once we had got there, Lestrade, Sherlock and I walked down to the morgue. Instead of Molly being there, it was a different woman. She had long, jet black hair and was elegantly tall. She wore the same uniform Molly would have worn today.

"Molly Hooper, aged 29 years, shot in the back of her head 4 times with a revolver. Time of death, around 8 o'clock this morning. I'll leave you be."

The woman left the room. Sherlock wiped his eyes. Even in the presence of her dead body, he refused to cry.

I rubbed his back and whispered, "It's okay to cry, you know, Sherlock."

"She wouldn't want me to cry, though."

I wrapped my arms around him, he wrapped his around me, and we just stood there, holding each other tight, not even considering letting go and breaking free from the embrace. It was what we both needed. A hug. A hug of the person we loved, adored, fell hopelessly for.

"We need to find the killer, Sherlock." Sherlock loosened his grip on me and turned to face the serious-faced man, whose roots were beginning to turn grey and whose new coat was a tad too long for his height.

"We will, Lestrade, I promise you."

"Good. I'll, erm, leave you both to it, head back to the police station, start hunting this murderer. There'll be a taxi waiting for you both, since John didn't drive here. I'll see you tomorrow, both of you." Gregory Lestrade began to make his way towards the door leading up to the ground floor and reception, when he turned back to us, and smiled.

"You drive now?" Sherlock looked bemused.

"Yes, Sherlock, took my test about 4 months ago. Mrs Hudson said that she was getting bored of going places with me by taxi, and I needed something to take my mind off things, so I booked some lessons, passed my test, and now here I am, driving a car that I only tolerate."

"I'm so proud of you, John."

Sherlock tightened his grip around me again and we were back in that unbreakable bond that we had shared moments ago.

"I'm so proud of you, Sherlock. So very proud."

I felt something wet touch my skin, and I realised that Sherlock had let his emotions come through, and was crying willingly, not fighting back the tears as he had done since he got the call this morning.

"I've always loved you, Sherlock. I've never stopped loving you since the Study In Pink case we had together."

"Really, John?" He laughed a little, like he thought I was joking. He let go of me and took a few steps back, wiping his eyes with his coat sleeve. I smiled at him.

"Yes, Sherlock. To be honest, from the min- actually, never mind. You won't believe me and it sounds rather silly anyway."

"No, no, John, please, please tell me," he begged. He entwined his hands with mine and he looked straight into my eyes, smiling.

"I can't, Sherlock, you'll laugh or something." I shook my head a little and looked downwards, at our feet.

"John, if I tell you something I never thought I'd tell you, will you tell me what you were about to say?"

I looked back up and reluctantly nodded. Once my head regained its stillness, Sherlock's mouth curled up into a smile as he whispered, "You have the most beautiful, mesmerising eyes."

I suddenly grinned like a Cheshire cat. Sherlock thought I had nice eyes. SHERLOCK COMPLIMENTED ME.

"Now that I made you smile, keep your end of the bargain and finish the sentence you had started."

His head tilted backwards a little, though his gaze remained on me.

"From the minute I asked for that one more miracle, at your gravestone, up until the moment Mycroft told me you were alive, I never stopped believing in you. I never stopped loving you, because this little voice in the back of my head said you would come back eventually. And you did. And to this day and till the day I die, I will always love you. I will always believe in you. I believe in you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock began to cry again, and I immediately regretted what had just been spoken.

"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock, I-I didn't mean to upset you, I'm so sorry, I-"

"Shut up, John, it was beautiful."

"Then why are you crying?"

"Because I never expected that, and it showed me how much you cared."

He took his coat sleeve to his eyes again and turned to face Molly Hooper, who was lying across the table, lifeless, her body covered by a blanket. She was so caring, so wonderful, she really loved Sherlock. She helped him fake his own death and gave him a place to stay while he was hiding away from the world, like a crouching lion, hiding amongst grass and reeds with its eyes fixed on its prey, only proceeding to pounce when the time was right.

"Goodbye, Molly. You were outstanding." Sherlock pulled back the blanket and revealed her head, her cold and pale but untouched face.

"I'll always remember you, Molly. Always," I said, the words aimed at Molly, words she would never hear or recognise.

Sherlock placed a hand on Molly's cheek and stroked it. "You really did count, you know. You could see me. You saw me for over a year, tolerated me in that cramped little cottage in the middle of wherever, stuck through me when I was at risk of being found before my time, listened to my moans about missing John, leaving him and Mrs Hudson behind. You were amazing, Molly Hooper, and I will always be in your debt. Rest in peace, you beautiful girl." He bent down and kissed her cheek, his own way of saying goodbye.

He replaced the blanket over her head and walked over to me.

"Come on, John. We need to find the bastard who would do this to her. You and me."

We held hands, not only to show our love for each other, but to keep each other strong, support one another. We walked out of the morgue and left Molly Hooper to rest.


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock was pacing around the living room, in his 'mind palace', a few days after Molly's passing. Me and Sherlock had made it our duty to solve this case and get whoever killed Molly to get sent down, while grieving the loss of our much loved friend at the same time. It was hard work. At random times, someone would talk about Molly, and me and Sherlock had to excuse ourselves before we broke down in front of the whole police team. Well, before I broke down. Sherlock was becoming more and more skilled at holding in his true emotions during the days of this case, but when we got home, when we went to bed, we'd just lie there. In each other's arms. Sherlock sobbing a little, me passing him a tissue and untangling our arms so that he could clean himself up from his tears and sniffling.

"This has to be the work of Moriarty, it has to be!" Sherlock was talking to himself again.

"Moriarty's dead, remember? Unless he faked his death too.." I reminded him, silently hoping he hadn't heard the sarcastic remark I had added on at the end.

Suddenly, his head was right in front of me, his body perfectly bent so that his head could be aligned to mine.

"Yes, of course he faked his death, because taking a gun to the roof of your mouth and pulling the trigger is an excellent way of faking your death. Of course he's not dead."

His expression went slightly cold, as he squinted his eyes and grimaced at his sarcasm. I shifted my back to make it straight in the chair, and Sherlock regained his original standing position. As he began to continue pacing, he explained his thoughts to me.

"Somebody is following in that spider of a man's footsteps, John. I expect that it's someone who was very close to Moriarty when he died, maybe a relative, a friend, a lover- but let's be honest, who would want a murdering consulting criminal as a lover?"

"Moran? They seemed pretty close?" I suggested.

Sherlock halted. He swivelled in his position to face me and looked puzzled.

"Moran?" he asked.

"Yes, Moran. Sebastian Moran?"

No reply.

"You remember him, right?"

He looked even more puzzled than before.

"Did the year-long 'holiday' leave you forgetting half the things you should've remembered?"

"No, John, it's just this one man. I can't seem to remember him. I may have erased him from my memory, if he was no longer necessary at the time of the incident on the hospital roof."

"It was as if he was Moriarty's accomplice. There's been a couple of incidents since your disappearance that has hit front page news, but the cases were never solved."

Sherlock's ears pricked up and he was suddenly interested, like a light bulb had flashed on in his head. "Continue," he insisted.

"With what?"

"Tell me about the cases, what they were like, why they weren't solved."

"Erm, okay. There was one woman in the first case, a man and a woman in the second, and I think there was a man in a third case. All shot in the back of the head, like Molly. They weren't solved because there were no leads, no witnesses, there was no evidence, the police had nothing at all to go by."

"Where this Moran man, John?"

"Not sure, I haven't heard about him in months. He must have moved or something. I can try looking for him on this-" I got up, moved towards the kitchen to retrieve my laptop from the kitchen table, and when I had sat back down, I placed it on my lap. I opened it up and turned it on, watching it spring to life with the touch of a button.

"And what if nothing suitable comes up?"

"Then we dig further. Look through policing records, check up on missing persons reports and stuff, we'll do anything we have to."

"You're thinking what I'm thinking aren't you?" Sherlock mumbled a little, then repeated it -with a grin growing on his face- so I could hear the words crystal clear.

"Depends on what you're thinking, Sherlock."

"I'm thinking that the cases you just described to me- very vaguely, I'll admit, but still useful- are linked to this Moran man's sudden disappearance. If he's trying to be like Moriarty, he knows all the tricks in the book, but he still hasn't got the confidence to be exactly like him. He'll strike when no one is around, he'll pounce on vulnerable people and just shoot them. He'll be extra careful not to leave any evidence, because at this point in his progress, he doesn't want to get arrested, he doesn't have the ability to be cunning and find a way out of there through threats or bribery, like Moriarty did in the court cases to make the jury plead him not guilty."

I was busy clicking away at my laptop, making notes, typing every word I could catch him saying.

"There's going to be no leads due to the lack of witnesses, lack of evidence, the list could go on forever but all these cases have victims shot in the back of the head. 4 times I'm presuming? Consistency may be key to this. We'll need to double check the facts with Lestrade, look it up in the archives. After the first three cases, he was too afraid of getting caught out, perhaps the police had made progress and almost caught him, but he fled before they could do anything more. And now he's back. He killed Molly in the exact same way as the others. But this one is going to be different, and you know why, John?"

I looked up from my computer screen, shook my head and awaited the answer, eager to write it down.

"It's not going to be left unsolved."

"Oh, like all the others were!"

"Nice to know you're catching up, John. We need to find this Sebastian Moran who has frankly disappeared from my memory."

"Maybe it's the Silence, Sherlock." I grinned.

Sherlock turned to me and gave me an unimpressed look. "You seriously need to stop watching that programme."


	8. Chapter 8

"Lestrade, it's been a week since Molly was killed, you have no leads, we have an answer, just listen!" Sherlock insisted.

"No, Sherlock, enough! I know you want to do good by your friend and all but this is a policing matter."

"Yes, and you asked me for help!"

"I didn't ask, I told you about her and said you could help if you wanted!"

"You need to trust me, Lestrade, I know Molly and I know who did this!" Sherlock stomped his foot like a little child who wasn't getting his own way.

Lestrade turned to me, pointing to the man who seemed like a lunatic who stood in front of him, and asked, "Is this true, John?"

I opened my mouth to speak, but it wasn't my voice that was heard.

"Gah, Lestrade, this is pathetic. If you had any inch of common sense, you'd trust us and let us help you. You have nothing to go by, absolutely nothing! If you were a good DI, you'd take any answers from anyone you could find."

"You can't just think of a name, find a way to connect it to Molly and call it the killer, Sherlock!"

"Moran was close with Moriarty, the killings with the other victims and Molly's murder are identical, he's been in hiding for months and now all of a sudden he's crept back into the picture, he could be anywhere in London. WHAT ELSE DO YOU NEED?"

The whole police team stopped and watched that entire argument unfold. Their eyes went from Lestrade to Sherlock as they spoke. It was like watching a tennis match that was reaching its climax- and it looked like Lestrade had given up.

"Fine."

"Thank you." Sherlock appreciated Lestrade surrendering. He knew it was one step closer to solving the crime, one step closer to finding Moran.

"I'll have some of my best officers try and find any knowledge of the whereabouts of Sebastian Moran. Have you done any research?"

This is where I stepped in.

"I spent hours on my laptop last night searching for him but nothing relevant came up. We thought he must've moved back here, so I checked with every estate agent within Central London and they had never heard of the guy. He must be out of our range but can easily get here and back to wherever he's hiding before he gets caught."

Suddenly, my phone started ringing from my pocket. Sherlock looked at me in dismay.

"What?" I was rather confused.

"We're in the middle of solving the murder of our friend and you want to talk to somebody else?"

I looked at the screen as it flashed the name 'Harry Mob'. What was she doing calling me? She hasn't spoken to me in months, I thought.

"It's my sister, it won't take a second, Sherlock."

I accepted the call and held the phone close to my ear, walking out of the room and leaving Sherlock and Lestrade to talk.

"Hello?"

"Hey, brother. How's things? Heard Sherlock came back!" Hearing my sister's voice was weird. There must've been a reason for her calling.

"Um, hey. I'm okay, how are you? Yeah he did, bit of a shock but I'm happy. How's things with Clara?"

"Good. I'm okay, Clara's okay, we're doing, erm, okay, I guess. We argued again the other day, she almost walked out on me but we've sorted things out and we're okay now. I love her."

Exactly how I felt about Sherlock. I loved him.

There was silence for a little bit, but then we restarted the conversation.

"Hey, are you working on the Molly Hooper murder case? It was on the BBC website this morning."

"Oh, yeah, she was my friend."

"Oh, I'm so sorry, John, I would've called sooner, it's just-"

"No, don't worry, my head's been a bit all over the place, with Sherlock's return and then Molly's death, it's all kind of messed up in my head."

"I'm still sorry. You think you've got the killer?"

"Well, yeah, sort of. Me and Sherlock have a hunch that it's a man called Sebastian Moran."

"Sebastian Moran? Really?"

"You don't know anyone called Sebastian Moran and why he's connected to the case, why are you in shock?"

"Let me pass you to Clara, she'll explain!"

I heard muffled voices, and then a new one. This voice was light, friendly, and belonged to Harry's partner, Clara. She was a newly employed estate agent for one of the several that were dotted across the area of Caister-on-Sea, where she lived with my sister. She worked for one that normally had small cottages in the countryside and on the coast for sale.

"Hey John, I'm sorry it's a bit of a panic, it's just, a man called Sebastian Moran has been in regular touch with the estate agents I work in. He's renting a cottage on the coast, I can give you the address if you want? He's only recently started renting, I think."

My eyes widened and I hurried back into the office, where Lestrade and Sherlock looked at me like they wanted shot of me. They tried to talk to me, to push me out and leave them work but I told Clara to wait one second and then told them.

"My sister's partner knows the whereabouts of Moran and she's going to give me the address."

My eyes flicked from Sherlock, to Lestrade, and back. Their expressions were identical.

"Do you still want me to leave?"

Both shook their heads simultaneously. They knew it was a breakthrough in the case, a massive one, if they pushed me out now they'd completely regret it.

"Thank you, gentlemen."

Placing the phone back to my ear again, I apologised to Clara and asked for the address. As she was saying it, I scribbled it down on the back of a piece of paper that was to be binned anyway. I gratefully thanked Clara, we said our farewells and I ended the call, shoving the phone back into my jean pocket.

"That's it, that's the address!" Lestrade delightfully exclaimed.  
Sherlock, on the other hand, was a little more serious and contained, so resorted to sarcasm to express his feelings. "No, Lestrade, it's obviously not."

I suspected another small quarrel so suggested, "Why don't we just drive down there and see what happens?"

"It's quite a distance, John, maybe we ought to leave this until tomorrow. It's 4 o'clock, by the time we get there it'll be too late anyway."

I nodded in agreement, realising the flaw in my plan.

"Tell you what, boys, tomorrow morning, 8 o'clock. I'll come to 221B with some backup, I'll call the police down in Caister-on-Sea to get some help so we have full backup, John will drive you two down there, police will follow, we'll catch this Moran fellow, and still be back in time for some late night TV. Sound good?"

It was a plan.

We were to set off down to wherever that was and catch Molly's killer.


	9. Chapter 9

The next day, we drove. Sherlock didn't like the silence half an hour into the journey, so decided to make casual conversation.

"So, John." He sighed and turned to me. We stopped at a red light. I took my hands off the wheel and turned to Sherlock.

"So, Sherlock."

"This is fun, isn't it? Me and you, finding the killer of the late but great Molly Hooper, driving down to the coast." He sounded too enthusiastic . The tone in his voice showed that he didn't have a clue what to say as casual conversation, he knew as much as I did that this whole catching-Molly's-killer thing was heart wrenching. She didn't deserve to die. She was brilliant.

"Um, yeah." I answered awkwardly. The red light switched to amber, and then swiftly alternated to green. Many cars took a corner, but I sped straight onwards.

My eyes were clearly fixed on the road, with Sherlock on hand to deliver directions when I needed them.

"Why Caister-on-Sea?" I heard Sherlock enquire.

"I'm not sure, Sherlock, it's a very random place indeed but I guess Harry and Clara liked it there."

"But why? What's it got to offer?"

"I don't know, I've never been there. It's on the coast, so maybe they live somewhere with beautiful sea views."

"What's wrong with the middle of London, where you can see hysterical views of people getting pissed off at rush hour?"

"Maybe it was the noise, the traffic congestion, the hustle and bustle of the heart of the capital."

"But why?"

It was like talking to a petulant child.

"I'm not a philosopher, Sherlock, I don't know the reasons to every single thing you ask."

I heard nothing for a few minutes, and then came a loud sigh from Sherlock. He shuffled in his seat, and sighed again. He went for a third sigh, an even louder one, but noticed I was getting a little annoyed, so grinned and sighed as loud as he could.

"Sherlock!"

"What? Am I annoying you, Mr Watson?"

"Just a tad, Mr Holmes, now please, shut up."

"Why should I, Mr Watson?"

"Because you constantly sighing and moving around is getting on my nerves and distracting me."

"You missed something, Mr Watson."

I turned to Sherlock, who now sat up straight and allowed his head to tilt and lean on the headrest. His eyes were closed but he knew I was looking at him. I saw a massive grin grow on his face in under a second. I changed my focus to the road once again.

"Mr Holmes." I muttered, in spite. He was so annoying. How could I cope with 3 hours of this in the car and 3 hours on the way back?

"Thank you, Mr Watson. It's most pleasing to know that you address me correctly."

"Oh cut it out, Sher-"

He held a hand up to correct me.

"Mr Holmes."

"That's better, Mr Watson. Anyone who is a professional must address me correctly."

"How do you not get slapped every day?"

"Elementary, my dear Watson."

"You were waiting for that to spring up."

"You expected it!"

We laughed for a little bit, and then I turned the radio up.

About 2 hours since we had left 221B, the radio was switched off and Sherlock was giving me directions. I was depended on to drive correctly by Lestrade, and when I looked in the rear view mirror every so often, I could see Lestrade glare at me. He had timed this perfectly well in his head and planned to stick to that schedule of his. If I was to turn the wrong way, I'd be in a jail cell for the night just for annoying him.

Sherlock got bored when the road was just a straight line. We'd go a few stretches at a time of just long, straight road, and then he'd tell me to turn off to go into a different road or something. He got really bored.

"Look, John, there's lots of trees over there."

"How lovely, Sherlock." My voice was flat. I wasn't in the mood for a running commentary of what Sherlock could see.

"And this is a massive road!"

"No shit, Sherlock."

"Are we there yet?"

"Does it look like we are?"

He quietly sighed to himself.

"John?" His tone had changed. He sounded serious now.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm a little scared."

I laughed- Sherlock? Scared?

He slapped my arm and said, "I'm serious."

"You're scared, Sherlock? Why?"

"This guy killed Molly, what if he kills me when we get there?"

"He won't, I'll be there, Lestrade will be there, there'll be police nearby, it's going to be fine."

The traffic came to a halt and almost immediately Sherlock took both hands to my head and forced me to face him. He was terrified. He had glassy eyes like he was about to cry, and his voice broke a little.

"I can't bear to not be there for you again. If he even lays a finger on you I swear I- I just can't be without you, John."

We kept our eyes focused on each other's for a minute. Suddenly, he removed his hands and turned his head to face the road. The cars in front were set in motion once again and my eyes also returned its focus to the traffic. My foot pushed on the acceleration and the car moved forwards. My eyes were becoming clouded with tears as thoughts filled my head of being without Sherlock. Again. I couldn't bear it. But this time, if Moran killed Sherlock, there would be no coming back, no returning from the 'dead'. He would be just that. Dead. I wiped my tears away and blinked, so that I could see the road clearly. Sherlock noticed and placed his hand on top of mine, firmly held on the gear stick.

"I'm sorry for that outburst, John, I just needed to tell you."

"It's okay, Sherlock, it's okay."

"How far are we?"

"Not far."

"Oh god."

"It'll be okay, Sherlock, I promise you. I won't let anything happen to you."

"I love you, John."

"I love you too, scared-y cat."


	10. Chapter 10

"Here we are. This is the address Clara gave to me."

We pulled up at a cottage that wasn't fair from the coast, surrounded by wildlife and nature. The cottage itself looked small and a little run down. It was obvious why Moran didn't just buy this place, apart from being traced and stuff. It wasn't the kind of cottage you'd buy as a holiday home, or even as a home in general. Sherlock took one look at the place and decided that even a criminal who was capable of copying the dangerous Moriarty would never live here- we had obviously arrived at the incorrect destination.

"Really, John? This is it?" Lestrade shouted as he overlooked the scenery.

"Apparently." I replied, smiling reassuringly so that he wouldn't be too mad at me.

Sherlock wandered over towards the door and knocked it. "Hello? Anyone home? At all?" He called out loudly. When nobody answered, he was taken aside and the door was knocked down by a couple of policemen. The violent opening of the entrance to the cottage made room for Sherlock to glide into the building gracefully. I hadn't seen him do that in so long.

Hearing Lestrade give orders to his police team (and the local police team from Caister-on-Sea) outside, I followed Sherlock and looked around the grubby cottage. It hadn't been cleaned in days, and a strong yet indistinguishable smell lingered in every space possible.

I poked my head around the door of the living room, realising I had now done the impossible and lost Sherlock in a tiny cottage. "Sherlock?" I called. I heard footsteps on the stairs, and a voice saying, "I can't find anyone around here, he must've scarpered while he had the chance. Have you found anything, John?"

My head turned to face Sherlock's, our eyes connecting as soon as I moved. "Nothing, Sherlock."

"Damn. We may need to search around the local area, although from here, it looks like it's just field after field after field with a small country road."

It was almost as if he flew outside, with his coat flapping in my direction as he swiftly moved towards where Lestrade and a few other detectives from Scotland Yard stood. I walked into the living room, where there was nothing but an unused and dusty fireplace, and uncomfortable- looking sofas. There were patio doors located at the other side of the room, overlooking a long garden with a large building not so far from the cottage. It looked dangerous, as if it was the perfect hideout for a master criminal and serial killer. I attempted to open one of the patio doors, but it was locked. I tried the other door, watching it open smoothly. Someone had been through this door not long ago.

I could hear Sherlock's voice in the distant, calling me, asking for my whereabouts.

"I'll be back, now, Sherlock, keep an ear out if I call you," I shouted back. I heard a faint sound of approval as I walked towards the shed.

I quickened my pace, hearing noises from the shed with every step closer I got. To any normal person it looked like I was speed walking to get away from somebody, although in reality I was speed walking towards somebody. I arrived at the large door, which I could see was slightly ajar. I took a deep breath, and pushed the door open, walking into a room of darkness. There was no light source. Not even rays of sunlight could penetrate through any hole in the roof.

"Hello? Hello?" I shouted. I could hear my voice echo through the walls.

"Why hello there, John Watson," a deep voice came from behind me.

"What the-"

I turned around as fast as I could, and ended up facing Sebastian Moran.

"Sweet dreams, Watson."

I called Sherlock's name, but before I could run, something cold, hard & blunt hit my head, and I fell to the floor, eyes closing.


	11. Chapter 11

I opened my eyes, almost immediately being blinded by a light shining directly in my face. I winced at the brightness and began to come round a little. My head began to pound and I realised I had been knocked unconscious by something hitting my head. Oh, had Sherlock's skills of deducing rubbed off on me.

When I had woken up a bit and managed to turn my head away from the shining lamp, I tried to work out where I was.

"Sh-Sherlock?" I whispered, as if he was right next to me. "Oh my God, Sherlock, Sherlock help me."

I went silent to see if I could hear voices, or any clues as to my whereabouts.

I gathered enough energy to produce a bellowing call of Sherlock's name, and immediately I heard a reply.

"John? JOHN!"

Loud footsteps came closer and closer with each passing second until Sherlock turned me to face him directly.

"You're alright, Sherlock!"

"This isn't about me, this is about you! Are you alright? What happened? I've called Lestrade and the police teams to come here but right now it's just me. I just ran past Moran, I had to find you, I-"

Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes widened and focused on mine. He went silent and his body became stiff. I didn't dare look at the figure emerging behind him, the figure that was Moran.

"You found your friend then, Sherlock. Well done. James would have been so touched."

"Don't panic," I mouthed to Sherlock, the loose and relaxed man who had turned into a senseless and tightened robot in under a mere 5 seconds.

"James? James is dead. Moriarty is DEAD." He spoke with a vicious tone, while keeping his eyes fixed on mine.

"You should be, too. Six foot under with the man I loved."

"But I'm not. I'm standing right in front of you."

Moran chuckled a little and the corners of his mouth curled into a smile.

"Sherlock, go!" I attempted to yell, but my voice was too weak and it produced a quiet whisper. Moran turned around and towered over me. It was intimidating, but it didn't stop Sherlock trying to pass him to get to me, to set me free from whatever I was attached to.

"He's so loyal, isn't he? Like a puppy."

From a distance, Lestrade giving orders and demanding several things from police officers could be heard. His voice was loud, deeper than usual. When he entered the shed, it bellowed, filling the entire room. Sherlock took several steps closer to me, until my hand could reach his.

"Sebastian Moran, of course. The man following in the footsteps of a criminal."

As each word was spoken, a single police officer would retrace Lestrade's steps until they reached the shed. It was comforting to know I had back up, people willing to help me, but it also made me uneasy thinking about how unprepared they were. They were just standing there, guns in hand, all waiting for Lestrade's order. It was like Gregory was the shepherd, and the officers were sheep. The officers who were the last to enter just stood there meekly, hands in pockets & eyes wandering, like this wasn't a case of life or death for one John Watson.

"Why hello, Lestrade isn't it? Ah, I've heard plenty about you and your little team."

"Let John go, Moran, your time's up. You've been caught."

Moran began to laugh- not a small chuckle, but a belly aching laugh, as if this amused him greatly. I looked puzzled and wriggled around a little. Sherlock grabbed my hand and held it tight, perhaps to comfort me, perhaps to stop me unsuccessfully moving around. He didn't look down at me, he didn't mutter a single word- for a moment I found it hard to believe he was breathing, he stood so still & calm.

"You think you can catch me? I've killed people and your little friend Watson may be the next in line. A long, long line. You've come the closest to me, I'll give you credit where credit is due. There is something you seem to be forgetting, though, and for a man of your logic and intelligence, you would've thought it would be the first thing that popped up in your tiny brain when you thought about how to catch me. I've been taught by the greatest. I know every trick in the book. Moriarty gave me his knowledge and let me see the world from his perspective. I was given the chance to complete his work, finish what he left behind, and I knew exactly how to do it."

Suddenly, I felt the end of a gun touch my head lightly.

"He will die." Moran whispered, so that only me and Sherlock could hear his cold words.

I squeezed Sherlock's hand to show I was scared. I was terrified. I didn't want to die. Sherlock looked at me with tears in his eyes as Lestrade walked closer towards Moran.

"We can sort this out. Let's just leave John out of it, he's innocent, he hasn't done anything wrong."

"It's not about him doing anything wrong. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Sherlock, go to Lestrade, go now!" I loosened my hand and allowed him to move. Instead, he grabbed it with both of his hands, tears beginning to stream down his cheeks.

"John, I can't leave you, I can't lose you, I just can't." You could hear there was a lump in his throat that stopped him from saying anything else.

"You have to, Sherlock, for me. For everyone. Go." It took every shred of courage I had left in me to say that. Of course I wanted Sherlock to remain by my side, keep me safe, but in my eyes, Sherlock came first. His safety was my main priority. For a split second, I had forgotten about Moran and his little monologue and his gun that was aimed at my head. It was all about Sherlock. I loved him. I loved him with every bone in my body, with all of my heart.

Lestrade continued to walk over slowly with his hands held up, almost as if he was surrendering. He reached Sherlock, whose hands were still tightly clasped around mine, whose eyes were filled with tears. Sherlock pleaded with Lestrade who pulled him away from me. I turned away- it was unbearable to see him cry. I shut my eyes tightly, trying to prevent myself from crying and preparing myself for the inevitable. I felt his hands slip away. I heard his frail voice call my name. He fought back tears with every last ounce of strength that he had just to say 4 little words that made my life complete.

"I love you, John."

The rest was a bit of a blur. There was crying, shouting, distress in one corner of the room; tension, suspense and a little bit of fear lurking in the opposite direction. My eyes were closing, my breathing slowed. It was like my body was shutting down, as if it knew what was going to happen to me. And with that, screaming, footsteps, and a gunshot.

Yet I felt no pain. My body restarted itself almost instantly, searching for a little piece of searing pain that the gunshot would've caused. I tried to make sense of it all, and before I could realise, I had been released from the chair Moran had placed me in.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, where are you?"

I panicked a little, then I remembered that I hadn't heard his voice until the gunshot.

"SHERLOCK!"

"It's okay, John, I'm here." His arms wrapped around me and held me close to his chest.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock, I'm so sorry."

"Mycroft?" Sherlock whispered. I pulled away from him and looked up at him, confused as to why he said his brother's name at this moment in time. His eyes were fixed on a man coming closer towards him. His footsteps became louder and louder, until I could clearly see, even with blurred vision, that it was Sherlock's elder brother. Despite the current situation, he remained elegant in his movement, holding the handle of his umbrella and allowing the body to balance on his shoulder. He stopped a few steps away from us, took his umbrella from his shoulder and clutched the handle tight.

"Little brother. John."

"Was that you?" Sherlock asked, unsure what Mycroft's reply would consist of.

"Was what me?"

"The shooting. Moran, he's been shot dead! None of us did it."

"Oh, that."

I looked at Sherlock with confusion, practically mirroring the expression on his face. He removed his hands from where they had remained since I had found him, around my waist.

"We'll never speak of this, yes?" Mycroft whispered. Was this some sort of out of body experience for him? I would never have even considered Mycroft being a suspect, never mind the culprit.

"You did this, Mycroft?" I whispered back. He could sense the shock I had, and simply shook hands with Sherlock and me, and walked away elegantly. I could see Anthea waiting for him to be close enough for her to say something without the entire room being able to hear her.

Sherlock called Lestrade's name and rushed over to him, busying himself with this crime. Some part of me also think that he was trying to protect his brother, the man he had once called his enemy. They were still enemies, never quite seeing eye to eye, but this was just one of those once-in-a-lifetime moments where they did what they felt was right for each other.

I kept my eyes fixed on Mycroft and Anthea. They were obviously immersed in conversation, but every so often he'd point behind him, back to me, back to where I sat in that chair, back to where I stood with Sherlock. I caught him turn his head around and look at me, but I looked somewhere else so that it wouldn't be too obvious that I was staring. With Mycroft knowing everything about everyone, I wouldn't be surprised if he found a way to blame someone else for the killing of Moran, or if the inquest suddenly hit a dead end. Maybe the world would never know of Moran's name. The man who killed our beloved Molly, simply to live up to Moriarty's name.

I checked to see if Mycroft was still watching me, until Sherlock grabbed his hands around my waist from behind me and fixed his head comfortably on my shoulder- one of the circumstances in which him being much taller than me came in handy.

"Ready to go, soldier?" Sherlock asked quietly. He was so close that I could hear every breath he took clearly.

"I haven't been to war since I returned & first met you. Why did you call me a soldier?" I replied, confused.

"There are many reasons for many things, John. You ensured it was me who survived if Moran pulled the trigger. You were brave."

"You were brave, too. I mean, I would never have had the courage to barge in here and try and save someone who was trapped in a chair and being held at gunpoint by a psychopath."

"I had to try it. I couldn't lose you."

I turned my head a little to see him and looked straight into his eyes.

"I love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"I love you too, John Hamish Watson."

"Just promise me something?"

"Anything for you. What would you like me to promise?"

"Don't fake your death and hide away for a year again."

He chuckled a little, removed his arms from my waist and grabbed my hand.

"I promise. Now let's go, it's going to take a while to get home, and you're driving _me_ home, remember?"


End file.
